


The rush of being home in rapid fading

by Radiolaria



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Bittersweet, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Not Beta Read, Romance, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she did not recognise his minute laughter, much breathier, she closed her eyes, struck and dumb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The rush of being home in rapid fading

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Remind Me by Royksopp.
> 
> Apparently I will have to create a series with River and the odd generation of the Doctor sharing a cup of tea.

River did not pay attention to the long coat thrown across the railing, nor to the beloved jacket tidily folded in a corner of the TARDIS. She did not notice the trills and quacks coming from the nearest corridor. She went straight to the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of items; travelling bag, shoes, coat and hat. As she poured herself a cup of hot coffee –conveniently- she shed her last hint of weariness, drowning it in the bitter liquid.

 _Blast_ , she growled internally, she deserved a couple of lumps of sugar for her trouble. The Doctor had been hell to work with, pretty boy this time; glorious hair, dreadful ego. He had fallen from blunder to blunder nearly getting her fired. As if it had not been enough, he had behaved in an exceedingly protective manner, leading her boss to believe she was fooling around with a man other than her ‘ridiculous husband of yours, Pr. Song, really’. Or rather that ‘the Doctor’ was the generic term she used for all the lovers who happened to visit her on her working place. Not surprisingly, it nearly led to a catastrophic spoiler for this Doctor.

She would hate to have to kill him because he learnt about his future too soon.

A fragile sound, ruffle of shirt and towels skirting together, entered the kitchen, and tiny sounds, droplets of water, drawing a sonorous map of his moving about. The singing she had not noticed had stopped.

For no reason at all, because she had noticed it was the new disco post-Manhattan TARDIS, she began headfirst telling him of her day. Of his dreadful young cutie self, of the recriminations of her boss and the expected accusations of polygamy and murder –that was unexpected. When she did not recognise his minute laughter, much breathier, she closed her eyes, struck and dumb, but resumed her story.

They bustled about for a few minutes more, in a blissful dismissive acknowledging of each other; she, silently ignoring his gestures and features–his hands on the handle of the mug constricted her hearts to pinheads, needles right through the lungs; he, slipping in a shirt and habits Oh so unfamiliar, yet laughing at her marital misadventures and sipping calmly his ever so savoured tea.

The subject exhausted, she carried on with whatever topics she could pleasantly sustain for the duration of her tea. Before retreating.

But he was perfectly still against the counter, and patted the surface beside him. His movements were controlled, jerky at times. She had not noticed. Her feet, timid, led her to his sides and she hoisted herself up beside. He had known from the beginning.

She was staring at the fridge before them, its shiny blueness; she realized she could see him in the reflection and boldly settled her eyes on him, decided to confront the reality before her. Always had been. _They change._

“Are you okay?” she inquired, tentative.

He looked sideways and squinted, a curious expression on the face.

“Probably. I have been slipping for the past twenty four hours. It’s not settled. I am not quite myself yet. Or rather I am all myselves at once.”

“Mild case of post-regeneration trauma?” she suggested, not daring to find his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re not going to strangle me while scattering jelly babies across the room.”

“Yes, no. It’s quite under control. Tea helps.” He paused, his hand going to the lips, thinner, still delicate in their outline. After a hesitation and a display of the faraway look the passing of memories causes, he began, softly. “Remember when I regenerated and was stuck in a salad bowl of my previous regenerations and Adric was…”

He stopped midsentence, attentive to her silence.

“I can’t _remember_ it.” The smile she offered him as apologetic as she could. Her eyebrows rose; it was an attempt, vain and necessary, at bridging the ineluctable and their peace of mind. “I am not always there.”

His nails, a little longer, were scraping the inside of his lips, where the dry and moistened fleshes meet. His emotions seemed better concealed, or was it the mere creases on his face telling of a story of their own, veils and deviations?

She hesitated.

How does one ask her ever-changing sometimes partner sometimes not yet partner if he still loves one? How does she ask “Will I be there when you die”?

“I’m not even sure I have seen the last of your previous face”, she muttered instead.

He smiled, narrow teeth and dimples in place.

“Spoilers.”

She bit her lower lip, delighted to unearth amidst the layers of new clothes, new face, new words, this piece of their history together. Still, she had leveled this weapon at him often enough to assess its speculative danger.

She shifted on the counter, balanced her weigh on her arms for a second, conscious of his gaze on her.

“Wishful lying,” her voice was faint, more to herself than him. Face bent towards her, he lowered his lids, while the corners of his eyes creased. It looked as if the upper half of his face only was smiling.

“If you want”, he simply commented.

New words. New tactics to dance around each other and hedge. His arms were now crossed on his chest, the attitude somewhat familiar, the folding of his arms different.

“I am never willing to spare myself the headache, it is part of the game. I learnt the hard way with your tenth and first”, she offered, half joking. The best way to tell the truth without having it disclosed is to misspell it. She had meant heartache, of course. “Could I ask for a refund? I never did marry those ones.”

“You shouldn’t have.” And it was his turn to shift on the counter. He wavered, tilted deeply to catch the mug at the other end. “I’ve never tried to spy on your previous regenerations.”

And he sipped his tea. She arched an eyebrow and clicked her tongue inside her mouth, slightly dry. She knew she could not expect him to be the same. Still ached when finding many, many similarities. Remains, she corrected.

He was studying her at the corner of his eyes, expectant. The tension was in his finger rather than his face. Distracting transfer, she observed. He seemed on the edge of taking a first step. But reluctant, before her, her response, her changing before his changing.

A little more digging on her part was apparently required.

“Sensible decision”, she drawled. The old flirting glint was back and she congratulated herself. “I like you with all your limbs, thank you.”

The smile on his face reached the eye in a micro second.

“So, like me still?”

She rolled her eyes, parting her lips. Her answer was too quick for her own taste. She did not regret it.

“Of course.” She straightened, avoiding the beam of a smile he was directing at her. “You ask as if it was not the first time I encountered another face.”

“I always ask myself if you still like me.” He chuckled before taking another gulp. “First time with the baby face was fun. I kept expecting you to… I don’t know, eat me alive?”

Simple as that.

“You wish! Well, it was hardly _my_ first time.”

“ _I know_. I hadn't fully absorbed the concept of backward crossing marriage with hounds of parents scampering about in diminutive skirts as cherries on top.”

His using of the word marriage sent electric shocks in her spine, insomuch that when he quipped his circumlocution about her parents she snapped back at full throttle, exhilarated, shamelessly coy: “Mum did not!”

“I was talking about your father”, he deadpanned and she rejoiced at how still serious he could act mocking her so. He noticed, because his eyes on her were suddenly softer, caring. His cup was empty but still hung before his face, futile protection. He licked his lips and suddenly lowered his gaze to the mug. “Anyway, I still had a lot to learn. You can’t blame me.”

“It took a while for me as well”, she confessed.

The grin was back to his face and he leaned in, looking mischievous.

“Always does”, he warned in a whisper.

River mused on. _Maybe._

He was not the one knocked around by a younger increasingly _forgetful_ version of his spouse. He did seem very confident in her. And he had a right to be. Nothing to win over all over again. He was the one who had changed and he could blissfully rest on the assurance she would never.

The same game. Always. Whatever the face.

She delved on him, taking the fullness of the changes in him. Physically –from the grey hair to the new feet, the tender liquid eyes and the long frame. She almost choked.

“Are you wearing a romantic shirt with puffed sleeves?”

He jumped to his feet –no, she noted with a pang in the chest, _rose_ to his feet. He was much more graceful in this body. His exhilaration at the attention his attire was getting had not waned through the change of body and mind though. He was grinning like a five year-old showing his latest masterpiece in macaroni.

“I do. Found it strangely appealing. And now I really want to try on interrogation mark earrings.”

She shook her head, vividly. He seemed to brighten even more. _Still love my hair, apparently._ He reached for a curl and she inhaled the new scent, so near.

“Control your bouts of wild rejuvenation please”, she breathed in a smirk.

He lifted an appeasing hand.

“Peace. I can do with only one manipulating bastard criticizing my natural developing cycle ”

She squinted. _Really_ new vocabulary.

“And how does your current travelling companion take it?” She got up, seizing the cup he had given up and filling it with tea, absently. She had made her peace with her parents’ loss long ago, on a dry and perfumed valley in the south of France. Without him.

 _Not always._ It was a choice she lived with. Down to the direst consequences. But they weren’t always dire. _Not always_ meant a little with the pretty boy, married, not married, her parents, the gentle-voiced one, and the Sweetie one.

“Doesn’t think this differs so much from my usual inconsistencies and hysterics”, he murmured, eyes glued to her hands.

She began drinking from his cup.

 


End file.
